THE FAIR ELLEN
Little by little they learned something of May Nell’s story. Her
mother had intended to start for New York on the morning of the
earthquake, having been called there by her own mother’s illness. Mrs.
Smith, though held to the last by household business, had let her
little daughter go to visit a widowed aunt and cousin, who lived in
a down-town hotel, and who were to bring May Nell to meet her mother
at the Ferry Building the next morning. But where at night had stood
the hotel with its many human lives housed within, the next morning’s
sunshine fell upon a heap of ruins burning fiercely. A stranger rescued
May Nell, though her aunt and cousin had to be left behind, pinned to
their fiery death.
All that dreadful day the man searched for the little girl’s mother,
but their house was early prey to the flames, and he could get no trace
of her. He was only passing through the city; and having fortunately
saved his money and tickets, was anxious to be on his way across the
Pacific. Consequently nothing better offered than to send the child
with other refugees to the kind hospitality of the country.
Edith had quickly put her plan in execution, aided by the willing
newspapers; but so far nothing had come of it, and mother and daughter
feared their charge had lost more than aunt and cousin. South America,
a very definite spot in the child’s mind, was still too vague a
postoffice address for even Uncle Sam’s marvellous mail-carrying; and
so, while encouraging May Nell, the two women tacitly adopted her into
their hearts and discussed her future as if she were their own.
It was a blessing that even her loyal soul must yield to nature’s balm
of passing time; in wholesome companionship and the fragrant warmth
of a country spring she somewhat forgot the grief that would otherwise
have worn to death her frail little body.
“My mama doesn’t believe in public school,” she had announced that
first Monday morning; but had gone obediently when Mrs. Bennett decided
it best. And the new life, the stimulation of study, the competition in
class, her knowledge of books, and the prestige of her story,--these
made school a delight, brought a happy light to her eye, a tinge of
color to her too fair cheek.
Her wardrobe was a heavy drain on Edith’s purse, yet the young teacher
delighted almost as a mother in the dainty garments that won her to
extravagance.
Billy also undertook to do his share. A generous sum of money had been
offered to the best student in the graduating class of the grammar
school; and he decided to try for it. And when Billy made up his mind
to anything connected with books, it was as good as done. For if he
had to study a little harder than some, his perseverance, added to an
unusual facility in telling what he knew, helped him to success.
Mrs. Bennett wished May Nell to be in the open air as much as possible;
and this meant a new experience for Billy, which he accepted with
tolerable grace.
“A girl under foot all the time,” Shifty complained. He had no sister.
“Well, you know the other thing to do if you don’t like it,” Billy
retorted, bluntly. “She’s my sister till her folks are found, and that
isn’t likely.”
“But if your steamer works you don’t want its secrets peddled round;
and girls always blab.”
“You’re the only girl I’m afraid of in that line. Isn’t that so,
Pretty?”
“You bet!” Pretty endorsed, inelegantly.
This conversation took place in Billy’s shop, a room adjoining the
wood-house and given over to his use. Nothing short of the world in the
second verse of Genesis was equal to the chaos of that place. Every
conceivable scrap and job lot of “truck” was there in a jumbled heap;
and Billy was never happier than when mussing it over in search of
“material”; in greasy overalls and crownless hat, whistling merrily,
bringing forth to substance and form the inventions of his busy brain.
The blandishments of soda water fountains, candy stores, and other
boyish temptations, found no victim in Billy. But if Mr. Cooper, the
tinshop man, had driven hard bargains he would have bankrupted the
boy. As it was his weekly allowance suffered in spite of Mr. Cooper’s
generosity and Billy’s free access to a rich scrap heap at the rear of
the big shop where everything, one would say, in tin and iron was made,
from well pipe, tanks, and boilers, to tin wings for Edith’s fairies
in the opera.
Now a steamboat was on hand. At odd times for weeks, Billy, Harold, and
one or two other boys, under secrecy of lock and key, had been slowly
bringing to completion a wonderful structure.
Billy had intended naming it _The Jean_, but Charley had stood for
_Queen Bess_, Harold didn’t like either name, and George and Jimmy had
objected to “girl kid names, anyway.” They had, however, unanimously
compromised on _The Edith_, for Billy’s sister was adored privately
by all of his older friends, adored openly and “tagged” by the
little ones. Edith, since May Nell’s coming, suggested her name. The
little girl agreed if it could be Ellen; Billy added “Fair” with her
permission; and this name he painted over each paddle wheel with no
opposition from the others.
All was now ready for firing. “She” was to be run by oil. They took
her out through the double doors, both swung wide for the first time
in many weeks. It was all the boys could do to carry the heavy thing,
though they went quite steadily across the vegetable garden, not
without some damage to spring lettuce and summer corn, however; but on
the steep, uneven slope below, the _Fair Ellen_ came almost to grief.
“Bear up aft there!” Billy commanded; and “Ay, ay, sir,” came back in
equally nautical language.
“Easy, mates. Kids, belay there, till we launch her!” This to the
gaping youngsters always in the way.
“Wharfmaster, ahoy!” Billy hailed, as they came near the water’s edge.
“Is all ship-shape?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came this time from two boys who had charge of some logs
lashed together and crossed and recrossed by a hash-like lot of refuse
lumber, and moored with a dog chain.
“Mother, do come and look at the procession,” Edith called cautiously
from the trellises, where she was slyly watching.
Billy heard her, though. “Come on, sister, mamma, too, and see the
fun,” he called, not unwillingly, for he was a bit proud of their work
now that it was out in the light of day. He had reason; it was really
an imposing craft for boys to build from scraps.
A crowd of smaller children momentarily increasing, capered about the
sweating five. Max bounded over the high fence, breathless, fearing he
would be late. Jean and Bess hurried down the hill, each telling the
other she couldn’t spare the time for “just boys’ foolishness.” Jackson
appeared on top of the south stone abutment, halting there till Billy’s
hearty invitation brought him flying down into the inclosure.
Bouncer barked at Billy’s heels. Geewhillikins chased an imaginary foe
down the hill, and Jerusalem Crickets crept stealthily along the upper
support of the side picket fence, trailing a venturesome sparrow.
Even the white chickens followed in a cackling bunch as they always did
when Billy appeared at this hour, for it was almost feeding time. And
the pigeons wheeled and whirred, lighting almost under foot only to be
up and off again, a flash of white and gray.
Behind the two women trotted a chubby baby. “I see Billy boat,” he
cried, shrilly, stumbled, fell, scrambled up again, and repeated his
refrain.
“Why, Buzz Lancaster, how did you get here?” Edith went back and
steadied him over the uneven ground. “Phew! He smells of gasoline!
Where has he been, do you suppose, mother?”
“I comed,” he said, calmly, “I see Billy boat.”
“Hurry up, Buzz!” Billy called as he raced by from the shop, where he
had been for the oil can to fill the boat’s reservoir.
“Shan’t we defer the ceremonies till we can get Charley’s little sister
and Jackson’s two weeks’ old brother?” Jimmy asked, disagreeably.
“Hold your grouch, Sour,” Harold expostulated.
“Please don’t call Jimmy ‘Sour,’” May Nell pleaded. “He’s big and dark
and splendid; and his other name is going to be Roderick Dhu; and he’ll
be kind to all weak things, and fight for the Douglases, and for the
_Fair Ellen_.” She waved her hand toward the steamboat.
Jimmy tried not to look pleased, but failed. Something about May Nell
attracted him, whether it was her beauty, her fearlessness, or her
air of distinction he did not know. It was really her recognition of
something fine in him that his cold and irascible father had almost
whipped out of him.
“All ready?” cried Captain Billy. “Are you ready, Ladybird?”
“Yes, Captain,” she answered, her eyes aglow while she smoothed
refractory frills. She wore a wonderful trailing robe of tissue paper,
“ruffled to the guards,” Billy said. On her head was a towering cap
of the same; and a light wind bellied out her wide angel sleeves like
sails before a spanking breeze.
She stood at the end of the creaking wharf, and one little bare arm
was lifted high. She held a small fruit jar filled with water and beet
juice. It was awkward, but Billy had insisted on the fruit jar,--“So’s
it will be sure to break; it’s the only kind of a bottle that always
will break.”
They fired up. An ominous sizz and clatter began. Five pairs of hands
shoved the smart boat into the water at May Nell’s feet. The children
shouted. The dog barked and the chickens cackled. And above all the din
May Nell’s sweet voice rang out, “I christen thee, O wondrous vessel,
_The Fair Ellen_.” She improvised hastily; for no one had thought to
prepare a speech for the occasion.
The bottle went crash, and a furious yell informed the neighborhood
that the Gang was “up to some new deviltry.”
But another and unexpected crash followed, and a shower of burning oil
shot up and caught May Nell’s flimsy paper frock.
Yet before one could think, almost before the paper had time to burn,
Jimmy sprang to her, seized her in his arms, tearing at the shrivelling
paper, and jumped far out over the flaming boat into a deep pool.
For a horror-stricken moment no one spoke. Even the dumb creatures were
still; and Buzz, thinking it all for his benefit, watched open-mouthed
for the next act in the play.
But Mrs. Bennett, fleet though speechless, was at the water’s edge by
the time Jimmy had risen with May Nell quite safe. She spluttered and
choked a little; but Jimmy had been so quick there was not even a red
spot on her flesh to show the touch of fire.
She was a queer draggled little creature, with her soaked and tattered
dress, and her yellow curls all stringlets. Timidly she touched Jimmy’s
blistered hands, realized what he had saved her from, and when she
looked her gratitude into his dark eyes something awoke in his heart
that never slept again.
“You had very soon to fight for the Douglases, didn’t you, Roderick
Dhu?” she said, as Mrs. Bennett covered her with an apron, and Billy
took her up and went toward the house.
“I thank you, Roderick Dhu,” she called out over Billy’s shoulder with
another little choke, for Jimmy had refused Mrs. Bennett’s offer of dry
clothes and was starting home alone.
[Illustration: Jimmy sprang for her]
So imminent had catastrophe been, that no one thought of the poor small
steamer burning unchecked to the water’s edge while the procession
climbed the hill; no one knew till days afterward that busy Buzz had
entered the open shop and mixed Billy’s cans so that it was gasoline
instead of kerosene that he fed that fated craft. But gratitude for
Jimmy’s bravery and May Nell’s safety supplanted even in the youngest
heart all regret for the boat.
All but May Nell; when Edith and Mrs. Bennett rubbed and warmed her she
declared she didn’t need it, and was so absorbed in lamenting the loss
of the _Fair Ellen_, she could think of nothing else.
“So long as it isn’t you, Ladybird, it’s all right,” Billy consoled;
“we can make more boats.”
But May Nell was not to be comforted, till that evening when she
composed a wonderful ode to “The Wreck of the _Fair Ellen_.”